


Hands On Approach (Throat Full of Glass)

by Al_D_Baran



Series: Dark Voltron Fics [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Escape, Experimentation, Galra Empire, Galra Keith (Voltron), Gore, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Not Beta Read, Psychological Torture, Torture, Vivisection, written way before season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9122449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Al_D_Baran/pseuds/Al_D_Baran
Summary: But how do humans work?Galra scientists try to answer this question for Zarkon by opening up their available human subject, the Champion.The Champion isn't as thrilled as they are about it.Neither is their half-breed assistant.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It’s about a guy getting vivisected by mad alien scientists. If you don’t think you can handle such a heavy subject that will obviously contain gore, psychological torture, blood, medical stuff and medical malpractice, well… please don’t read this. You have been warned. Also some canon divergence because I need mah angst, ya feel.

 

 

 

 

It's hard to scream with a throat full of glass

\-- Combichrist

 

 

Shiro awoke with a start, trying to sit up, but his body wouldn’t even budge. He was strapped by what seemed to be leather belts, the material digging into his muscles each time he tried to move. He tried to lunge his body up again, only to be stopped just as promptly, his head hitting the freezing, smooth metal table under him. The captain noticed, not without an old remnant of modesty, that he was stark naked.

His eyes didn’t seem to adjust to the darkness around him. Shiro didn’t think he’d even have seen his hand if it was pressed to his nose. And the cold… Galran ships were always terribly cold but now, it bit his skin and slipped into his flesh. The tip of his nose, toes and fingers were already numb and he wriggled them to try to bring back some feeling to the flesh.

How long had he been here? He remembered being in a cell, laying down against a wall for some sleep and then…

He had fallen asleep.

Nothing peculiar had happened in the last few… weeks? Days? Time had no meaning now. Ten years could have passed already and he wouldn’t have known. Between the arena and the cell, everything was the same. Shiro felt numb, guessing it was simply because it was all too surreal to try to think it out. He had been abducted by aliens whose existence had been anything but confirmed when they had embarked for Kerberos and suddenly, he was on a ship, fighting Lovecraftian-monstrosities in various arenas for these creatures’ sick entertainment while he had no ideas where the _hell_ he was even in the Universe.

A light opened in front of his eyes, pure white and blinding. Letting out a chocked scream of surprise, Shiro whipped his head away, feeling his fringe slap his cheeks – the light had been so sudden, actual pain seared through his eyes. The light filled the room, making it impossible to even creak an eye open without closing it again right away. Panic started to fill his chest, the feeling curling around his heart icily, amplified by the sound of Galrans rustling around the room, talking, chuckling… small talk. Jokes about him.

The spots above him still blinded him as he opened an eye, met with the pupilless, yellow gaze of a doctor. Their claw-like hands were covered by what looked like latex gloves, mouth covered by masks.

Shiro felt his stomach drop.

It all made sense.

The coldness of unfamiliar white room, the brightness of a spot, the pale, paper-like garbs, gloves, masks, a cold metal table, his body being strapped here.

A Galran female hooked a bag of clear liquid over him, labelled in their language. Unreadable. The dull sound of a hovering table caught his attention, on his left. The sharp tools were dark and odd but Shiro recognized forceps – they looked like a monster’s claws.

“No!”

It made sense.

“Let me go! No!”

They were going to test on him, they were going to try to operate him, dissect him.

“You can’t do this, no!”

Maybe he hadn’t done good enough in the arena last time, maybe, maybe – what had he done wrong? He had won, he had given a good show, the crowd had cheered more than ever, he had been a little hurt, but it was just an arm, it was just his arm, he had still won—

He screamed – it was all he could do, much to the jaded annoyance of the surgeons, who looked at him without even saying a word. It cut their little chit chat, but none of them appeared to care – they looked at best, inconvenienced. One barked an order at a fourth Galra – an assistant? –, groaning in impatience. Shiro fought against his restraints vainly, winding himself out just to start again, never even hearing the crack of leather.

The taller Galra growled. “Sedate him,” he said, not even looking at him, pulling his mask down to reveal a sneer. “Our Highness wants these results soon. We don’t have time to waste.”

The needle was jabbed in his arm. He barely noticed it, wrist and elbows tied to the sides of the operating table. The barrel’s contents felt like liquid nitrogen inside his muscle, the effect quickly knocking him out again, darkness eating at the edges of his vision before his eyelids slipped close.

 

 

 

 

He woke up again, what seemed to be just minutes later, the surgeons gone – he wished he could have been relieved but when would they come back? Of course they would come back. They hadn’t even started the dreadful things they wanted to do to him.

His brain was mushy – not unlike he would have felt after being hit on the head repeatedly. The fog he floated in dissipated slowly, the white light above him giving him a potent headache that thankfully soothed rapidly as his senses came back.

His head had been tied to the table – had he been hitting it in his panic? –, his upper body now slightly elevated, just so he could see the rest of himself. The cold had made his skin a faint pink and the inability to look around and see his surroundings made his heart beat harder in his chest. Not being aware of your surroundings was always a mistake. An IV was taped to his arm, looking deceptively human in the actually alien room, the tape clear to show the liquid dripping inside of him, the tools were still right beside him and… he groaned.

A catheter. Inside his… _godammit._

It seemed that the worst of humanity was – _well_ – universal after all.

He chuckled dryly, remembering his annoyance for these when he had had his appendix taken out. He had been just a boy, and even the memory of the tasteless hospital food and his mother’s hovering tendencies, her too tight hugs and his father’s stupid jokes managed to soothe him, even a little.

It had been a long time since it had.

A door opened somewhere he couldn’t see, Shiro’s head instinctually turning to the sound of it, earning a sharp pain in the side of his neck. He had pricked himself… it seemed like his whole body was pierced with IVs, on his legs, on both arms, his neck now… he could only wonder what all those would be needed for.

After all, there was only one bag of it.

For now, he expected. Galras were certainly not jamming needles everywhere in him for nothing. If it wasn’t just for their sick pleasure.

The surgeons came back around him, three of them surrounding him, their faces shadowed by the spot behind them. One pulled his mask down with a little chuckle, looking at the bag of solute pensively, then turned to him with a smile.

“Stopped your little struggle, I see.” The alien sighed, looking at its colleagues with a bored face, gesturing for what could only be a nurse to come closer. “Give his stump a look. Don’t want to have it be infected and be told I should have checked the precious Champion better.”

As soon as the nurse’s clawed fingers unclasped the leather belt that held his truncated forearm. Shiro threw it backward, sending the hovering table flying, hitting the Galra in the stomach, sending it tumbling and down. It tipped and turned over itself, its deep noise reverberating for a second as it found its gravity centre again, rotating to have its right side up, as if nothing had happened. The tools on it had fallen to the ground in a clattering cacophony, the room silent but for the pained hisses of the nurse, the surgeons just letting out annoyed sighs.

“Should have held him down. You mutts really can’t do anything right.” There were laughs from the other doctors, none of them even trying to move as the younger Galra picked everything up.

“I’ll do it,” said a Galra female with an amused chuckle. Her hands squeezed what was left of his forearm, her strong grip preventing him from pulling it away as she pulled and picked at the fresh wound. “Still tender, uh? It’s healing fine. As long as our _Champion_ here,” the word was said with irony and Shiro knew exactly what it meant – stupid human, “doesn’t pull any other stunt like this.”

“Now bandage him up, mutt,” she said, watching as the fourth Galra came back, warily this time, looking at the man on the table. Shiro didn’t trust any of this until he finally caught a sight of him – the… the _kid_ had jet black hair, long enough to brush his shoulders and cat-like pupils breaking his eyes in two, giving him a more than peculiar look.

Mutt. A half-Galra? Shiro didn’t think it was even possible.

He hadn’t ever thought about Galras with anything but hate.

Shiro _growled_ as the kid came closer, its odd eyes looking at him in fear – he had heard about what the Champion would do in the arena to much larger enemies. Could he kill him with a pathetic stump, even when strapped wholly to a table? The question seemed to run in his head, Shiro finding a cruel pleasure in the thought.

“Fuck off!” he snarled, swinging his arm away from the nurse’s reach. “Fuck _off_ , don’t touch me with your fucking claws!”

The boy’s fear was practically palpable. In other circumstances, he could have felt some pity for him. The Galras laughed as the mutt came back with the clean bandages, trying to hold his arm down with a noticeably lesser strength than an usual Galra – he had fought back against enough guards to tell –, allowing Shiro to pull himself free.

He spat on him, earning some stronger laughs.

“Can’t even just bandage a puny little human! You’re really a useless mutt!” the woman cooed, shaking her head.

Shiro used the boy’s surprise to push the nearest hover-table inside his stomach again, making the third, burly surgeon laughed as the female rolled her eyes.

“You really can’t do anything, uh?” She walked to him, giving the pained half-race a kick to the side, making him groan in pain. “What? Don’t give me those eyes. I’ll open you up too, you little shit.” Her voice softened. “Now that’s better. But it’s not your fault you wouldn’t know how to control yourself uh? Your mother opened her leg for one of these…” She turned to Shiro, not without disdain. “Exotic animals. Throw those bandages away. The Champion can’t get infected.”

Shiro tried to move his head to see what was happening now, straining his eyes to see what happened now the Galra had moved away. The mutt picked himself up with burning eyes, gathering the medical tools that had once again littered the room’s floor, throwing some away as he brought new ones and clean bandages.

This time, he looked at him in the eyes. Shiro wondered for a second if he was some kind of prisoner, eyes glued to the oddly human-looking face of the Galra. He looked scared – it was almost like looking back at himself. Siro sighed, thinking this could end sooner if he just stopped fighting, letting his body relax until the boy would be done.

His softer side couldn’t help but have him lay still until the more careful hands of the half-race. He didn’t look like want to be there – with reason, it seemed. He could let a truce happen between them, looking down to the sparse hair of the peculiarly human hands, without any traces of claws.

The pause didn’t last long. What seemed to be the head surgeon, the taller Galra, stepped in as he shooed the assistant away to place sticky electrodes on the side of his neck.

“Alright, as I said before, we’ll have to see his heartrate visually. This is a delicate operation,” the man said, taking an oxygen mask that he strapped over his nose and head. “We’ve never been allowed to dissect a live human before so for science and… well, _other purposes_ , we need to be careful. Wouldn’t wanna kill the Champion, you know.”

Their anatomy?

_His_ anatomy?

Shiro felt his brain halt, as if it was purposefully keeping him from understanding the implications of what he was saying.

The female Galra tested one of the tools, a sharp laser blade coming out of the dark purple handle.

The other male readied a pump, the nurse brought more gauzes.

Shiro swallowed again, his throat fighting against each little movement.

He suddenly remembered he hadn’t been served a meal this evening, forbidden every others prisoners to give him even a scraps.

It all made sense again but Shiro couldn’t bring himself to make the last connection. He tried to struggle, but the head surgeon gripped his chin, a grin showed his dangerous fangs, “I’d suggest you stay calm. You’ve been and will be administered some sedatives, but we wouldn’t want to compromise your internal organs by a sudden scalpel stab, uh?”

Shiro’s eyes couldn’t have been wider, looking around the room as he stammered, “My, my or-organs?”

“Yes! _Yours_!” The Galra laughed, clapping as if a child had drawn something terribly ugly he still had to congratulate. “Lord Zarkon is curious to know how you creatures work. I was happy to oblige, I’m an eminent scientist, you know? Not that a human would know who Zhulok is.”

“Who the fuck is Zhulok!” Shiro wished his voice didn’t shake in fear.

A cold mixture was applied to his chest and stomach.

“Zhulok? Me, of course. Humans really are as stupid as they say. Asdas, put the disinfectant all the way down.”

The Galra’s gloved hands reached his groin, his sides… All of him was covered in a burgundy product, everywhere they needed it to be and more. His heart was in his throat, Shiro feeling a sob of fear rise in his throat as the purple blade of the scalpel appeared, the laser sharp and bright.

“Jyrin, prepare the forceps. Asdas, the pumps. His abdominal cavity’s going to fill with blood and we want to _see_ what we’re doing.”

The female Galra didn’t even say a word as she held the claw-like instruments. Shiro felt colder than ever, trapped like an animal in a snare. Flailing would only kill it faster, the idea of a white bunny choking to death leaving him tetanised.

“Kid, get us the other IV bag. Same as this one, painkillers. A bit more concentrated this time.”

“Yes, sir.” The mutt’s voice made it sound as if he was going to faint.

“You’re, you’re not going to anesthetize me?” Shiro asked, teeth clattering as he suddenly could feel the cold dig to his very core.

Zhulok smiled, pulling his mask down again, toothy smirk still wide, his scalpel just an inch away from his sternum. “That would be nice,” he said, faking a sigh, “wouldn’t it? Haggar wants to see how far we can push you. And… well, humans are unknown anatomy here. You are a well of knowledge, as stupid as you are. Keep still now.”

The laser pierced his flesh.

A scream ripped his throat, his fingers and legs extending as he tried to get away from the pain. He was awake. He was _awake_. Everything blurred between pain, the beeping of machine and the mundane banter of the doctors over him. Shiro almost couldn’t believe he stayed conscious, the blade tracing a deep, straight line all the way down to his hips, separating the muscles, flesh and fat. The bubbly, ochre adipose filled with blood. Zhulok carefully cut another line just over his hips, and a second one just under his collarbones.

Shiro begged to become unconscious from the pain, crying sloppily, heaving without feeling his stomach empty itself. He didn’t believe in God, but the name left his lips in a cry. Slowly, the pain left to a somewhat manageable throb, Shiro looking down to be met with the sight of his own beating heart. He could see it _actually miss a beat_ , the flesh dark and pink as it filled with blood, the deep red muscle contracting, a layer of fat protecting it. The forceps were already keeping him wide open.

He felt like a corpse, watched by a pack of voyeuristic wolves, desecrated and humiliated. He would be devoured, but not until they were done playing with him.

“Fantastic… look, you can see where the bones fused back after breaking right here,” Jiryn mused as she traced the ribs, unfazed by his screams and moans. “He hasn’t even passed out. But that’s to be expected from the Champion.”

Zhulok laughed, “Guy kept fighting when his arm was torn right off. He’s a tough cookie.” Finally, someone turned to him, grin visible in the surgeon’s eyes, “Sorry, buddy. We didn’t tell you that we didn’t fully numb ya – it’s not like you’re a willing patient we have to conscientiously inform of everything. No hard feelings uh? We just don’t want you to have a sudden heart failure.”

“It’s crazy how flexible these are,” Zhulok thought aloud, pushing on his ribs as Shiro tried to look away, eyes morbidly glued to his opened chest, surprised and adrenaline keeping him from feeling the first wave of pain as the scalpel was lowered to his sternum. Asdas held him down as Zhulok patiently cut the thick bone, then pulling the ribs apart to leave them have a full, unobstructed view of his insides. Jiryn pumped the blood out, humming a tune happily.

Heads turned for a second to look at the mutt, who had just vomited. Shiro felt as if he was acutely aware of everything in the room, even if it passed in a flash. The lights were too strong, his pupils dilated, enough to obstruct almost all the grey of his irises. If he had been rational, he would have concluded the drugs in his system kept him awake, numbing the pain yet making sure he stayed alert.

“See how his lungs contract like this? He’s in panic. And pain.”

“No, no shit!” Shiro managed to croak, coughing harshly as he choked on his own spit.

Zholuk ignored him entirely. “But see, they’re blocking the view. We’ll have to deflate them to be able to have a good view of everything.”

“What?” Once again, Shiro was ignored.

Jiryn smiled, “He’s not going to be able to stay awake during that.”

“He can pass out for some time before brain damage occurs. We can be quick,” Asdas muttered.

It felt like they were analysing the results of a flight simulator. Shiro felt invisibles when their hands were inside of him, one of the female Galra’s hands already moving to squeeze his lung, pulling and turning it over. The pink flesh was soft in her hand, Shiro _feeling_ the strain of pressure as he breathed, eyes closing to keep himself from the sight of whatever they were going to do take the air out.

It took only a minute – maybe just seconds, even, it felt like a whole hour had passed in his distorted senses – for the air to lack. He gasped for air, eyes opening to realize in horror that no one was around him anymore but the ashen-looking Galra mutt, who looked frozen on the spot. His hands were trembling as he clumsily hooked another tube of painkillers to him.

It felt like his heart would finally burst, like he would finally _die_.

He was the last thing he saw before passing out, his vision fading to darkness in an instant.

 

 

 

When he came back to himself, Shiro knew that it hadn’t been long since he had passed out. He could breathe again, though dizzy and tired, a distinct pain in his chest. As he looked down to himself, Shiro hoped he had been sewn back, that he would be transferred somewhere else, but his opened thorax told him it was anything but over. Two hoses collected to pumps were inside of him to collect blood, an infinite number of miscellaneous tubes had been laid over his pulsing innards, some of them connected to his heart and lungs to allow him to breathe, even when his lungs were deflated, unmoving.

Zholuk and his assistants were gathered around him, digging to see everything they could find inside of him.

“Amazing how much can fit in such a tight space,” Jiryn said again, looking to him with the fascination a cruel child would have had upon finding the decaying remains of a stray cat. He was too tired to care, jaded almost. There was no more pain for now, but he knew it would come back. He closed his eyes, feeling a weak pride keeping him from crying out loud.

“It looks like Galra anatomy,” Asdas noticed with disgust. “Can’t believe an inferior being would look like… so much like us.”

Zholuk chuckled, “Now, don’t be like this. Life does imitate art. There isn’t so many ways life can happen anyway. Surely, things are going to look similar somewhere, but... what the _hell_ is this?”

Zholuk’s hands wrapped around his liver. Shiro wondered if it seemed somehow pale to him due to the heavy blood loss he was _definitely_ suffering, but it was burgundy. Shiro hadn’t ever been too interested in anatomy, remembering textbooks from high school and what he had heard on science shows.

“Hey,” Jiryn said, “why don’t you answer him? I’ll assume it’s useless. Us Galras don’t have that.”

Oh. Livers were important. Forcing himself to talk, Shiro swallowed, voice hoarse, “It’s… the liver… it’s used to… filter toxins… like alcohol or… drugs.” It grew back, the only organ to do so, his mind reminded him, in the exact voice of the host of a science show he had enjoyed in his youth.

“Alcohol?”

“It’s a drink. It gives you a… a nice buzz.”

He missed the prickle of beer on his tongue. The burn of liquor.

“The subject looks tired.”

“Asdas, we have our damned hands inside of him,” Jiryn sighed, taking a sample of his liver without caring too much for his explanations, moving to the pink mess of his guts. Some had spilled out a little. Shiro felt entirely disconnected, as if he was a spectator too, as if this wasn’t his body anymore. An experience. He guessed he was now. It was better to be just an experiment, just a subject than to be himself, a human, opened, observed, searched.

The Galras looked nameless, a blurry mess over him. The light behind their heads obstructed their faces, making them all the same entity, a many-headed hydra with hundreds of voices, thousands of hands.

“Alright, we’ll have to schedule another operation,” Zholuk said with a sigh, turning to look at the unresponsive human, giving his heart a closer look. “He’ll die if we do more. That was still a productive evening, the last subject… what was he, a Karanaran?”

“Karnaan. He died in minutes. And it’s been… almost an hour,” Jiryn corrected as she looked at Shiro’s face. “He is quite pale. Still, impressive for an inferior race.”

Asdas reached inside of him, Shiro watching curiously as the others did the same, Zholuk letting out a laugh as he saw where his hand was heading. Shiro felt a pressure inside of him, painless, a squeeze…

“Stop with that bladder fetish of yours,” Jiryn grumbled, glaring at Zholuk as he laughed. “It’s unsanitary and unnecessary.”

Shiro understood. The Galra had squeezed his bladder to make it release, which would have made him piss himself if he hadn’t had a catheter inside of his urethra. The shame came to him slowly, like it was foreign before it took over him. He closed his eyes. As least it was over.

“He’s out,” Zholuk noticed, pulling on the flesh of his face with a chuckle. “Let’s just knock him out to sew him back on. He’s been a good boy. We’ll make sure to give him a treat. And maybe next time, if he’s good too. What should we start with? Lungs? That liver thing? Surely he can survive without a few of these – but the heart, of course.”

“I’d say we try that liver one, it was disgusting. Mutt, sedate him,” Jiryn said, the kid executing himself right away.

Shiro looked at him numbly, eyes closing without more of a fight, the effect of the cold liquid in his vein bringing him under in just a minute. Over.

For now.

 

 

 

Machines beeped around him when he woke up, the sound of them slowly lulling him out of slumber. Shiro looked around, groggy, wary of where he could be, only to realize he was in a medical unit. Each breath hurt, pried out of him like each was a hammer hit to his fragile ribs. Each needed to be carefully measured, carefully executed or his body would light up in pain.

It looked like a prison, of course, his wrist being shackled to the bed, as well as his legs. The room was thankfully warmer than the last one, tiny, cluttered with machines with the Galran alphabet, diagrams on display over each screens.

Shiro looked down to his body, hoping what had happened had been just a nightmare. His arm– the stump of it was still bandaged, maybe it had all been a terrible fever dream, caused by infection, sleep paralysis, something mundane, maybe the pain was the broken ribs he had been codling. Something he could explain other than the cruelty of an alien race that only saw him like an ant they could either crush or look at through the glass of a vivarium.

They hadn’t bothered to dress him, but a blanket covered his legs and nether regions, a mess of tubes and sticky pads covering him. Under the colourful mess of wires that monitored his every vital functions, the scar.

It was red and inflamed, not sewn but held together by thin strips of bandages. The thin, H-shaped scar covered his whole torso, making him nauseous as soon as he saw the extent of it, the lowest part losing itself under the blanket. It hadn’t been a dream. Shiro wasn’t sure if he had had any hope to lose anymore, laying defeated as he looked down to himself.

It would happen again, he thought, staring at the ever constant mountains of the line on the holograms around the room.

It was a matter of time.

He wasn’t a prisoner anymore.

He was a subject.

 

 

 

 

It felt like an entire year now, unable to understand time in space, having lost track of his counting of the ship’s night and day cycle long ago. His days were simple. A meal in the first hour of the beginning of the day cycle, then training. Another meal a few hours later. Training. A last meal. Night time, lights out. It repeated endlessly, making it even more difficult to know _when_ they were.

And about where? Shiro didn’t even want to think about it. The distance between starts was gargantuan and now, wherever this ship was going, they must have been an incomprehensible distance from Earth and even the Milky Way. How long had he been held captive? How long had it been since he had been separated from the Holts? Shiro didn’t even remember the taste of udon, the burn of vodka, the smell of spring… it had all been a thousand years ago, in another lifetime.

He had wondered a moment if this was caused by him angering God, some other kind of Eldritch monstrosity, whatever it was – Cthulhu, the Universe, Karma, Fate… whatever _thing_ he had wronged had to be cruel – or maybe life was just _this_ cruel by itself, he thought, in a cynical way he knew he would never have… however long ago he had been captured on Kerberos, even more since the time he had only been a fighter.

 But that hadn’t been enough for them, he thought. He was a prisoner without rights – no, less than that now: an _experiment_. Striped of his last human decencies, opened and spread for them to understand human anatomy – Shiro was acutely aware that this reason had ran out a long time ago, but fighting only made them try more and more sadistic experiences, for their pleasure.

The first time, they had just looked inside.

They had let him rest for a month, then sending him back to the arena when he could stand, to see if he could still win anything before giving another attempt almost right away.

The second time, they had decided to take one of his lungs out, sewing him back up summarily to see how he fared without it.

Obviously, after such an invasive, useless surgery, even when he had been given his lung back after a few days, going back to the arena had been out of the question. Shiro wasn’t sure what had stopped them – he thought it was that half-Galra, who had been appointed to care for him.

When he had been brought to that laboratory the next time, Shiro hadn’t known what could have been worse than all this. The operation had been different this time, but just as painful. His lack of arm was disturbing to the Galras and a great disadvantage down in the ring. So they had decided to give him a new one, a solid prosthetic. Shiro had felt some _actual_ joy at the idea, for the first time since his taking, the feeling completely alien as he had felt nothing but hurt, fear and humiliation for so long.

It was short lived.

The procedure was long and painful, the readaptation process even longer, with all kinds of ache he had never felt before. The flesh had to be cut open again, the bone truncated to add something to fix the bone. Shiro was kept awake the whole time, hurting his throat once again as he screamed, but had long since understood begging would bring so results. He needed this arm. He needed it to survive and to pilot ships.

It took days more to be able to even move his arm, the metal a heavy weight against his side. It was surprisingly heavier than he remembered the flesh to be, but sufficiently heavier than what had been left to throw him off. After a few weeks, he could move it awkwardly, the pain of nerves and synapses connecting to the wiring of the robotic arm. The scientific inside of him couldn’t help but still marvel at the advanced Galra technology. This arm had every functional articulation after all, the right pressure was innate to it. It was much more than he could have hoped from human doctors.

He was back in the arena as soon as he could grip somewhat, as Zhulok said, “The best readaptation is necessity, the need to survive. You’ll learn quicker by your impending doom than to try to hold a damn spoon.”

The necessity to survive, even through the blinding pain. Shiro knew what he needed to do.

Just keep fighting.

 

 

 


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People need names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yea, this was supposed to be much longer. but since it's big ass canon divergence now, guess i'll make it a serie. if this gets some love, i'll write more. also yea, shiro's a nerd.

The vast emptiness of space around them seemed to peer right back at him. Even after dreaming of this moment for so long, Shiro didn’t even know what to do of his freedom, locked in an escape pod that would bring him back to Earth. It was what he had always wanted and yet… he felt lost, unable to stay still, looking at the ship’s dashboard warily, eyeing every button, touching his arm.

What was he going to do with the freedom he’d just recovered? His fingers slipped to his chest, tracing the deep scars of being opened up under his shirt. What was he going to do now? He didn’t know. Shiro didn’t know and it was scary. How would he live knowing what was out there? How would he live with all the memories, all the scars, the arm?

Shiro turned to the Galra with him, warily eyeing it’s prostrated form. Mutts were not much better than slaves and… he _had_ indeed saved him. Shiro didn’t even know the Galra’s name, wasn’t even sure if he had one. He knew nothing of him, even now when he had been saved, when he had pulled him into the escape pod. There was no life on Earth for a man as traumatized as him, and none much for a Galra, even if he was a human mutt.

He had saved him in more ways than one.

The mutt he hadn’t trusted had saved him physically, had cleaned his wounds and given him an opportunity to flee. That was something he needed to thank. But words just wouldn’t come out of his mouth and Shiro leaned into the pilot’s chair, turning to the Galra as it stared at him.

“Do they give mutt names?” Shiro asked, uncaring if he seemed blunt. He’d seen a few – purity was always important for Galras. Especially to keep their blood from being tainted by inferior races – like humans. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen any with one.”

The Galra shook his head, looking pained.

“They don’t,” he said. “I’ve never even met my mother. I was her disgrace.”

Shiro placed a hand on the mutt’s shoulder, carefully, waiting until he turned to him. He looked like a cat boy, with yellow irises and large, downcast ears, fur becoming hair around his jaw.

Shiro wanted to promise him he was no disgrace, but the words stuck in his throat. He was so grateful, undeserving of the mutt’s kindness after he had only treated him terribly. Had called him names that would be sure to hurt him because he was the only victim he could have, the only outlet beside the blood on the sand, unable to talk back to the Champion.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro promised. “I should have been nicer to you. You were… in the same boat as I was and… I guess we still are.”

The humour seemed to go right past him, the mutt looking at him with confusion as he said, “We… we are on the same ship.” It was… cute, somehow. Shiro couldn’t believe he would think a Galra was cute. It felt unfair to still refer him as “the mutt,” but he was still nameless. Shiro didn’t know what to call him. Was there any name he liked?

“We are,” Shiro conceded, trying to smile as the pain alleviated a little through company, through not being entirely alone. “We are. I… I don’t know what I’ll do with you on Earth, but I’ll try to find something for you.” If the Garrison discovered about him… Shiro didn’t knew what they’d do to him. The mutt was an alien – a human hybrid, sure, but a proof of intelligent alien life nonetheless. Shiro couldn’t help to picture them opening the Galra open.

It made something cold spread inside of him. He knew this horror.

To be just a subject, an experience. And it felt terrible to know that the mutt would be no more than what he was, even if he was sentient like them.

“It’s… it’s more than I deserve, Champion.”

“No,” Shiro hurried. “Please don’t say that. About you – and about me. Don’t call me Champion. I have a name, I’m… a person, more than the Champion. I’m Takashi. Please… call me Takashi – or Shiro, if you want.”

“Takashi,” the mutt said as if he was trying out the name.

“That’s right,” Shiro said with a smile. “You… should have a name too. That’s what people have.”

“I’m… I’m not—“

Shiro shushed him with a hand on his shoulder, “You are. Now… you are. You saved me. You’re not under me. I’m just Takashi, I’m not Champion… and you’re… you’re you.”

The mutt seemed to think it over, giving another look at the vastness of space around. As if for the first time, he considered that he was something at all, more than just nothing. In that instant, he looked like a child, turning to him as if Shiro would take it away.

“I… I don’t know what to name myself. All the Galras I’ve known… they’re all terrible. I…” The mutt looked down, returning an honest, open look to Shiro. “I want… a human name. Please, Takashi… give me a name from your people. So I’m… I’m not just… a mutt anymore. So I can be like you.”

The responsibility was so grand that Shiro felt all his ideas leave his mind. The name needed to be perfect. He thought of nothing very good, lost as to what would fit the mutt. A good name. A name that would fit him. Shiro didn’t think he could find one; no name would be good enough for the one who had saved him.

So he blurted out the first one he could think of, “Keith. Like… like Keith Richards, from the Rolling Stones.”

The Galra looked surprised to hear him find one.

“Is… Keith Richards… an important Earth person? Are these… stones a… natural phenomenon?” the mutt asked.

“Not quite,” Shiro said with little smile. “He’s… just someone I like.”

The mutt looked to him for a moment, then stared at his hands, as if considering the name, the reasons why it was given… then he turned back to him.

“I like it,” Keith said, offering him a smile of his own.

Shiro gently touched his shoulder, the  simple gesture seeming to warm the both of them, “I’m glad, Keith.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are better than kudos.


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